


Lady Weirwood

by Layra



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Haunted Godswood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:48:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27319492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Layra/pseuds/Layra
Summary: The Godswood of Winterfell is haunted, by a single ghost who sits before the heart tree. All of the North knew the Starks were devout, that they regularly went into the woods to speak to the Old Gods, but really they went to her, for unlike the Old Gods, she would answer.At the end of her strength, unable to keep ruling from the shadows, Sansa Stark goes into the woods to pray.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 36





	Lady Weirwood

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have not read the books since ADwD came out in 2011, and I stopped watching the TV show after season 4, so if I've screwed up the details or characterization or anything, whoops.  
> The fact that I'm posting this in the vague remains of Halloween is mostly a coincidence.

In the roughly one hundred years since the Godswood was opened to the public, it has been accepted, by some more relunctantly than others, that the woods are haunted. At first it was only a few a tales by wide-eyed children, but then even men and women of, supposedly, sound mind came out bringing word of a lady who sits beneath the heart tree and who can vanish in the daylight.

  
By the time photographs make their way out of the Godswood, the evidence they provide is seen as mostly extraneous. The magpies have long since come and gone, publishing story after speculation-heavy story in the papers before abruptly getting distracted by yet another succession crisis in Yi-Ti. The only thing they had left behind was the title "The Lady of the Weirwood", or, as an enterprising child had put it, "Lady Weirwood".

  
She frown when she first hears the name, but accepts it from children and eventually from everyone else, until no one call her anything else. When asked what her name is, she merely smiles and says, "Lady Weirwood is a wonderful name."

\- -

Alayne Baker is quite used to ghost stories, growing up in the shadows of Harrenhal. She has friends from the Raventree area who still swear by the Old Gods and the woods that house them. She has often visited the weeping weirwoods on the Isle of Faces, and so the blood-red tears of the Winterfell heart tree is familiar, almost comofrting. It's like that one song, "red as autumn, white as winter".

  
But seeing the snowflakes falling straight through the lady before her is quite something else.

  
She hangs back as Lady Weirwood holds court over the other tourists, who gather in their dozens despite the flurries and the chill wind. They make quite a sight, the tourists in their brightly colored jackets and hats and Lady Weirwood, bareheaded in a dress that looks like it went out of fashion before the discovery of iron.

Alayne blinks. Her roommate Mella back at Oldtown had done her dissertation on historical fashion and wouldn't shut up about how much she disagreed with everything her advisor had ever written. Alayne's only knowledge of dresses is the product of those rants and as a result is almost a thousand years out of date. Which also means that the dress is a thousand years out of date. But it's also somehow familiar.

What feels like years later, she finds herself before the heart tree, alone but for the ghost. "I've searched, and I've searched, and I think I know the answer, but first I wanted to talk to you," she says to Lady Weirwood.

  
"And what answer would that be?" asks the ghost.

  
"I think I know who you are."

  
The ghost smiles. "I am Lady Weirwood."

  
She smiles back. The books definitely didn't mention how beautiful Lady Weirwood must have been in life, and the brief mentions left by the Starks themselves, buried under legend and myth, certainly only speak of her wisdom and grace.

  
"I suppose you must have found records of me, then," Lady Weirwood says. "Have my nieces and nephews written about me so much that you can find out from the museum?" She looks in the direction of Winterfell City Hall, which Alayne recalls is where the Great Keep used to be back when Winterfell was still a castle.

  
"Not quite. Everyone just says that they went into the Godswood to seek answers or to talk to the Old Gods. And I do mean everyone; not a one mentioned a name for you. I even read the entirety of Giron's Winter Saga to see if it had any clues, and let me tell you, an epic poem based off the testimony of a four-year-old is not all that full of facts."

  
Lady Weirwood smiles. "Yes, well, to that four-year-old, and indeed to all of them I was merely 'Auntie'," Lady Weirwood informs her. "I was there when they were born and I was there when they died. And I'm still here."

\-----

For eons untold, the scions of House Stark, Kings and Queens in the North, would go into the Godswood for blessings, for guidance, for wisdom. They would go before the heart tree and speak of Events and bring forth their worries, their doubts, their fears. Alone before the Old Gods, they would make their pleas, and would come forth with plans and certainties, if not always happier for it.

  
When Queen Lyra Stark took the throne too young, she spent a each day for a month in the Godswood before she emerged to announce her own betrothal. When the War of the Broken Thrones tore through the South, King Torald II Stark went into the Godswood, and there the Old Gods and he decided upon the Closing of the North. When several lords conspired to dislodge Queen Alys, she brought her suspicions to the heart tree and came back with solid proof and a polished blade. When the lords began to ask if Winterfell's Godswood was indeed inhabited by the restless dead, Prince Theomund Stark offered to bring them in so they could find out for themselves.

  
Every marriage was performed before the heart tree, and every child brought to be blessed as soon as it was safe to bring them outside. Even long after they gave up rule and retreated from public scrutiny, the Starks would still visit the heart tree as they always had.

\--

He glances down at the babe nestled in his arms, at the lock of hair sticking out from under the fur wrapped around her head, such a different color from his own hair, and her blue eyes as she stares up at him. He supposes that this is just what the Starks look like now.

  
She shimmers into view as he reaches the center of the wood, smiling. "Congratulations, my lord."

  
"I named her Sansa."

  
She smiles faintly. "Greetings, Lady Sansa. Welcome to the world. May it be kind to you."

  
He angles his new daughter so that she can squint at the apparition before the heart tree. "Little Sansa, this is your Auntie. She is wise and good and when you are old enough to have questions that I do not have answers for, you can try asking her."

  
She places a spectral kiss upon the babe's brow. "You have always placed so much faith in me."

  
"I cannot ask father, for he went south, never to return. And the brother and sister who went south, also never to return. And the brother who abandoned me to go north to the Wall, what can I ask of him? No, as little Sansa will do in the future, I bring my troubles to you, for you are still here."

  
She nods. "I am still here."

\--

"I have a moon before the regents make a decision for me," declares Lyra, pacing back and forth. She wishes that her voice wasn't so piping, like a child's. She wishes that she could sound more mature, like mother, like Auntie. "I have a moon to pick one of their stupid sons and I don't like any of them."

  
Auntie pats the snow next to her, so Lyra deigns to sit. "There are many reasons to marry a man. Will he make you happy? Perhaps not. But will he bring you power? Wealth? Men?" Lyra wants to object that she doesn't care about wealth or power before Auntie shakes her head. "Will he keep you safe?" Lyra's jaws snap shut. "Can you trust him?"

  
Lyra chews her lip for a moment. "I don't know."

  
Auntie's smile turns sad. "Many young ladies find themselves having to grow up faster than time should permit." She gestures for Lyra to sit next to her. "We have a month, and there are many, many things for you to learn, things you do not want to learn the hard way."

\--

"I fear for the South," declares Torald, wringing his hands. She reaches out, but her own hands pass through his. He appreciates the gesture nonetheless. "The lords have been meeting every three moons for years now, and still the Iron Throne is empty. Our cousins in the rivers tell me that even they cannot all agree on a candidate."

  
"It will be war," Auntie intones, and he blows out a slow breath. She always told his father that war was terrible, was a waste and a horror, but his father had reigned in peace. So far, he had as well.

  
"We won our independence in such a war," he glances at her, "but at high cost."

  
She says nothing. He wonders what she had thought of that war. Had she watched it from this wood? Had she sent his ancestors South with her blessing, her wisdom? Had she wept, that the House of Stark had lost so much, in order for the North to win its freedom?

  
Finally she turns to stare at the keep. "We have our independence, and in return we have no part in choosing who sits on the Iron Throne. War will not serve our people. It rarely has."

  
Well, he thinks to himself, that answers that question. "I will send to Moat Cailin immediately."

\--

"I think something's wrong," declares Alys, before she even reaches the tree. Auntie fades into view before her, mouth flat. "I'm getting reports from Last Hearth that don't match what Umber is telling me. Same with White Harbor, and a bunch of other places. But I can't get anyone to tell me what's actually happening."

  
Auntie nods slowly. "Your lords are always willing to lie to you if they think they can get away with it. They have their own petty interests."

  
Alys chews her lip. "Yes, but this feels different. It's all at the same time, and they're all keeping their mouths locked up for once. I know that someone's doing something, several someones are doing something, but none of my little birds have anything solid yet."

  
Auntie gestures for her to sit. "Ideally, you would want one of them to just confess publicly. That would probably be enough to get the rest to start talking."

  
Alys straightens. "Yes! Yes, a single confession would scare the rest into line. But how? I can't just threaten them; I can't have people bringing up the Blood Wolf years."

  
Auntie smiles, all fangs. "I have some suggestions."

\--

"A singing man asked me for stories about me," declares Theomund, rocking on his heels. Behind him, Mama starts grumbling. "But I only know one story of my own. And that's you, Auntie!"

  
Auntie smiles at him. "Well, soon enough you will have plenty of stories of your own."

  
"I fear to find out what that gut-strummer will make of my son's depiction." Mama doesn't sound afraid. She sounds angry. Does Mama not like songs? But Papa sings. Auntie sings sometimes too.

  
Auntie shakes her head. "Do not fear. Most know that a bard's songs are just that. They like to listen to sweet stories and then they go back to their real lives."

  
"You do recall Lord Gallard's reaction to the pie two moon-turns ago, correct?" Mama asks. "He's been like that ever since he heard 'The Wolf On the Crossing' three years ago. Three years!"

  
Theo doesn't know that one. But Lord Gallard's expression had been pretty funny, so maybe he should try to find out!

  
Auntie makes a face and laughs. "I didn't realize someone had made a song about that."

  
Mama snorts. "Trying to collect every shiny little snippet they hear, like bloody magpies. At least actual ravens are useful."

\--

"I'm giving the Godswood to the city," declares Dara. "It's not fair for me to keep them to myself when I can't even be here. Maybe someone else will find themselves here."

  
There aren't many who still believe in the Old Gods. She isn't even sure that she believes. But she believes in Auntie, who has sat before the heart tree for longer than the city has existed, perhaps longer than Winterfell itself; she doesn't know and Auntie won't say.

  
"It's for the best," Auntie agrees. "You still have pack out there. You are not the first Stark to leave here after tragedy."

  
Dara wants to ask, wants to know, but at the same time she doesn't. Auntie had look so devastated when her uncles had left, one to follow his heart and one to follow the law, and Dara knows that Auntie has old pains that don't need to be revisited now that she is leaving as well. It's bad enough what the magpies will say when they find out that she's gone.

  
"But I will be the last. I can't be the Stark in Winterfell anymore, and there's no one else."

  
She will come visit, she promises herself, when it hurts less. But she can't stay.

  
Auntie manages a smile. "I'll still be here."

\-----

For thousands upon thousands of years, the Lords of Winter would go into the Godswood and pray for guidance, for wisdom. So few are surprised that Lady Stark and the King in the North would spend a portion of each day sequestered in the Godswood, and when they come out the King would announce the decisions that the Old Gods had led him to. His father had spent much time in the Godswood pondering how best to lead the North, and his father before him, and it is good to see young Rickon, so long lost to the wilds, following the traditions of his ancestors.

  
Rickon, on the other hand, is less certain about the wisdom of the Old Gods. Or at least, less certain that they're willing to share it with him. Maybe his sister is hearing it, for she knows what to do much more often than he does.

He can tell that his sister is getting, not weaker, but quieter. His bannermen are listening to her less, and she often bites back words that he would have said aloud. When he offers to challenge them for her, she smiles but tells him that he can't simply fight his own bannermen for preferring him. He needs to maintain his reputation for being nicer than her. After what she did to Bolton, and Baelish, and Dustin, and Ryswell, the lords have been whispering, calling her the Blood Wolf. Compared to her, even his childhood in the wilds of Skagos make him seem tame. So she lets him be the one to speak, even if every word out of his mouth came from her first.

But she is also getting quieter in general, and Rickon doesn't like it. When they go to the Godswood to talk, she says less, telling him that he is getting wiser, that he is ready to rule alone in truth. He doesn't feel that way at all. He still feels the need to run off into the woods, to get away from the confines of duty and courtesy, even if she tells him that the chains are much worse in the south. He's never going south, he's too busy here.

  
And maybe she is getting weaker. She is still smarter than him, more able to tell truth from lies and to find compromise where he sees only conflict, but she is slowing down, ever so slightly. The wolf that had grown up hunting his own food can see that she is starting to lose her pace. And some of it is frustration, a feeling he knows quite well, well enough to see that it isn't just that.

  
But every time he tries to bring it up to her, she shakes her head and refuses to talk about it. No, he has better things to worry about, she tells him. He's not so sure of that. His childhood had been losing his family, his father, his mother, his sisters and brothers; he has the right to worry about losing her.

\--

The storm had come upon them suddenly, trapping them all inside for days, and now that it has broken he knows where his sister has gone. She has had little advice for him these past few days as he held down the wolf's blood and kept up the spirits of the household. But now that the snow is gone, the politics will flood back in and he would like her wisdom, however little she claims that he needs it. He knows things, even understands some of it, but still.

  
So he makes his way into the Godswood, past trees older than the entire rest of the castle (although given how much of the castle he has had to see rebuilt, perhaps that is not saying much). Shaggy meets him on the way with a soft whine and a nuzzle at his hand.

  
"I'm still here, Rickon," she says as he gets to the clearing where the heart tree stands. "I won't leave you alone. We've lost enough family. I do think that you can stand on your own, truly, but I'm still here."

  
He's somehow not surprised to find her kneeling before the heart tree, red as autumn, white as winter, her corpse lying crumpled beside her.

**Author's Note:**

> The original idea for this was the very end of section 3 and a bit of section 1. The rest, in particular all of section 2, is kind of just incidental worldbuilding that I liked too much to discard.


End file.
